


Three

by sparkyeureka (sparkycap)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 01:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkycap/pseuds/sparkyeureka
Summary: Herc has been failing as a father since long before he let his teenager into a conn-pod, but there are some things he gets right.





	Three

**Author's Note:**

> Few things:  
> 1) this diverges slightly from canon in that Herc and Angela divorced when Chuck was around six  
> 2) I wasn't really sure how to tag the abuse here, because it's never explicitly shown or talked about in any specific detail, but it's heavily implied and in a way it's the backbone of this fic, so just.. be aware that that's a thing.

_2013_

It’s October when Chuck shows up on his doorstep.

It’s raining, because of course it is, and the kid is soaked to the bone and shivering, clutching the strap of his overstuffed backpack so hard his fingers are white. Looks a little pathetic, though Herc knows better than to say it, like a drowned dog, wet hair plastered to his forehead and puppy dog eyes and all.

His hair is cropped close now, shorter than the last time Herc saw him—three weeks ago at his tenth birthday party, a small thing in his mother’s backyard with the kids from his class playing sports while the parents hung around the patio not talking about August and San Francisco.

The party was held a month late, because Chuck’s actual birthday had been spent sitting on the couch with his mother watching Trespasser destroy Oakland. Herc had shown up at Angela’s at the end of the night to make sure they were both okay, just in time for Chuck to leave the room, for Angela to tell him quietly that Chuck had been asking for him, earlier. Always earlier.

He’d been invited to the party out of courtesy and had shown up out of guilt, spent most of it on the edge of the crowd, holding a beer for something to do with his hands and watching his boy kick ass at football. It was not, all things considered, a bad way to spend a day, the highlight being when Angela’s new husband said something Herc couldn’t hear and Chuck had responded, loud enough for everyone to hear, that the man was not his fucking father and could fuck right off, thank you very much.

Chuck had brought his new ball over to Herc to mess around a bit, as if to emphasize his point, even though he glared at him only a little less harshly than he did his stepfather and only said anything when he was trying to convince him that ten was old enough for a sip of beer. Herc had tried halfheartedly to tell him off for the swearing and then let it go. Kid probably learned it from him, after all.

Now he’s not glaring, but the look in his eyes isn’t any less intense. He stands on the doorstep getting rained on and doesn’t make any move to come in, and Herc belatedly shoves the door open wider. “Lemme get a towel.”

“Not a dog,” Chuck mutters, sullen as ever, but he stays still and only drips on the shoddy rug in the doorway.

Herc tosses the towel over the kid’s head and lets him figure it out, watches him grumble and rub almost viciously at his wet hair. He checks his watch; it’s coming up on ten. “Your mother know you’re here?”

“No,” Chuck says.

“All right,” Herc says.

…

After the kid is asleep, or at any rate has been quiet in the spare room for an hour, he calls Angela.

“I’ve got Chuck,” he says straight off.

“What do you mean?” The background noise on her end of the call is loud enough to tell him she’s not at home, and he hears what sounds like a chair scraping the floor as she stands. “He’s with you? Where?”

“My place.”

“Did you—you can’t just _take_ him—”

Herc almost laughs. It’s hard enough getting Chuck to come with him the days they’re actually supposed to spend with each other, like hell could he get the boy to come on a whim. “Angie, c’mon, he showed up at my door a couple hours ago. Where’s he supposed to be?”

“At home, with the sitter,” she says, most of the ire in her voice gone now. Their post-divorce relationship isn’t all that bad, a lot better than it was pre-divorce at any rate—mostly it consists of Angela trying to tell him he’s not spending enough time with Chuck, and him resisting the urge to point out that he might see more of the kid if she hadn’t kicked him out.

But he doesn’t, because he’s well aware that _might_ is the operative word there.

“What did he say?” she asks.

Not much, Herc thinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean why’s he there, why did he—oh, god, how did he _get_ there, he’s too young to—Jesus, did he look okay?”

Well, shit. Awkwardly, Herc says, “He’s fine enough.”

There’s a pause, and then Angela says, “You didn’t even ask why he showed up, did you.”

It’s not a question.

“I’ll come get him,” she says tiredly.

“No,” he says, quicker than either of them expected. “No, let him stay the night, at least. I’ll talk to him in the morning, yeah? See if he’ll tell me what’s going on.”

“That’ll be the day,” Angela mutters, but she doesn’t say no.

…

Chuck stays the weekend.

He doesn’t ask to, and Herc doesn’t offer; they simply don’t talk about it until suddenly it’s Sunday night and Herc has just made dinner for someone other than himself for the first time in at least three years, meatloaf and mash, and Chuck is playing with his food instead of eating.

And Herc may be out of touch, but one thing he does remember is that Chuck has never been a picky eater, the opposite really. He stabs his meat. “It’s not that bad.”

Chuck shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Herc says. The look in Chuck’s eyes seems to say _yeah, and how would you know_? But he watched him eat an entire pizza himself at his birthday party last month, so he just raises an eyebrow, and Chuck’s listless shrug prompts him to put his fork down. “Listen—”

“Can I stay with you?” Chuck says finally, words tripping over themselves on the way out, like he’s been holding it back for days. Herc blinks. Chuck rushes to add, “Just for now.”

It’s been nearly two full days now, the most uninterrupted time they’ve spent alone together in at least a year, and Herc is pretty sure he can count on both hands the number of full sentences Chuck’s said to him in that time.

The rain had continued on through Saturday, and they’d spent the morning on the couch watching movies until Herc got twitchy sitting still so long and headed out to the garage. There was an old bike out there he’d fuck around with in his spare time, and an hour later Chuck followed him out to sit silently on the weight bench and watch him. Today the sky’s been clear, and Chuck’s spent most of it outside, kicking around a ball and using the old wooden fence as a makeshift goal, Herc joining him on and off.  

They’ve been good days, in Herc’s opinion. Better than any they’ve had in a long time. None of it had really required many words, and maybe that was part of the reason why things had gone so smoothly.

So Herc takes care to bite back the automatic response of _what for_ and ask, “For now?”

“Just a little while,” Chuck says, with a kind of desperation that destroys whatever was left of Herc’s appetite. Whatever he’s forgotten, whatever he was never around to learn in the first place, there are things he knows very well about his son. The wild-eyed expression on his face right now is one of them, along with that desperate tone. Chuck was always a mama’s boy, but Herc was still the only one who could get him back to sleep after a nightmare.

He twists the wedding ring he wears on his right hand now and forces himself to meet his son’s eyes. “Is there—Charlie, is there something going on with you and your m—”

“Don’t call me that,” Chuck says.

 

_2014_

It’s March, and Chuck has been living with him for five months when he finds out why.

It’s not a secret that Chuck doesn’t get along with his stepfather. It’s only a little less obvious that Herc doesn’t either. Angela gets annoyed by the both of them, but Chuck grins whenever he sees Herc’s hands twitch and start to curl into fists around the other man, that bright smile Herc almost never sees anymore, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it.

The three of them are at Herc’s place after the latest football game, because Chuck was high off a win and wanted to celebrate and is still young enough to want to do that with his parents. Might also have something to do with the trouble he has making friends, but Herc figures it’s his own fault; if he wanted more friends, he probably wouldn’t be such a little shit to all the kids his age.

Not that this attitude extends only to kids his age, as he regularly reminds Herc and the rest of the world, currently by way of the face he makes as his stepfather walks into the backyard.

“What’s he doing here?” Chuck asks, an impressive amount of scorn in his tone for a ten-year-old.

Herc wishes it wouldn’t be so wrong to smile. Instead he nudges the pizza box across the picnic table toward Dave and says, “Help yourself,” and ignores the betrayed look Chuck shoots him.

“He’s part of our family,” Angela says patiently.

“Part of yours, maybe,” Chuck mumbles, getting up when Dave sits next to him and circling the table to take a new seat on the far side of Herc. He tries not to feel smug.

“It’s okay,” Dave says to her. His smile always makes Herc want to knock a few of his teeth out. “Charlie and I have an understanding.”

“He doesn’t like being called Charlie anymore,” Herc says automatically, because if he’d waited for Chuck to make the correction it would have been done much more rudely.

But to his surprise Chuck doesn’t say a word.

…

Herc is rummaging through the fridge, because he figures the kid has earned a second soda, when he hears the back door slam shut. He straightens up in time to see Chuck storm into the kitchen, face flushed, hands curled into fists.

This is not a huge cause for alarm until Chuck swears loudly and takes a wild swing at the wall.

“Hey, whoa.” He sets the soda down and grabs Chuck’s arm to turn him, not so surprised when Chuck pulls away violently and whirls on Herc. He hardly bothers to hold up placating hands before he tugs at Chuck’s wrist to look at his knuckles and inspect the damage.

Nothing bad, thankfully, but Chuck’s reddened fingers are already trying to close again as he snarls, “I hate him. I fucking—”

“Take it down,” Herc says sharply, and Chuck rips his hand away but he does take a deeper breath. Kid always used to damn near hyperventilate whenever he threw a tantrum—come to think of it, that hasn’t actually changed much.

“We _don’t_ ,” Chuck says, and his hand is in his hair now, clenched so tight Herc thinks he must be hurting himself. “We don’t have—he wasn’t supposed to be here, he’s not supposed to—”

“Take it down,” Herc says again. “You wanna tell me what this is about?”

Chuck stares at him accusingly. “You don’t like him either.”

“No,” he admits. “But I’m not the one punching walls over it. Remind me to show you how to use the bag in the garage, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says, scrappy little thing that he is, the idea of it turning the edges of his scowl bloodthirsty instead of sullen.

Herc is going to create a monster, he can tell. “What’s the deal, kid?”

“We don’t have an understanding,” Chuck says, as if this means something very important.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Herc says.

Chuck shakes his head impatiently. “You don’t understand. He thinks I—that I don't—”

A lot of people think of a lot of things about his boy, and only about half of them are half true. Herc has never known Chuck to care much about any of them. “Spit it out, then.”

Chuck’s small hands curl into fists again. “You gotta believe me.”

“Only won’t if you’re lying,” Herc says cautiously, not sure why he feels so on edge.

Until Chuck scowls again, eyes red, and says, “He said you wouldn’t.”

…

The heat of battle is always a bit of a blur after. It’s a familiar thing, and a welcome one at that. For the first time, Herc regrets it a little.

He wants to remember this.

By the time he comes back to himself, he’s dislocated the man’s shoulder, broken his nose and bloodied his face up a good bit more beside, and he has his hands around his neck—not even really squeezing, not enough to do shit, but the threat is there.

Partly what gets him to stop is Angela, after more than a few frantic attempts to get his attention, shouting, “ _Hercules_.”

Mostly it’s her saying a second after, “Your son is _right here_ watching—”

Herc takes a deep breath. Underneath him in the grass—he remembers now, pulling Dave out of his seat by the shirt and landing a solid punch to the face before anything else—Dave looks terrified and on the verge of passing out. Figures the fucker can’t handle himself in a fight unless it’s against a ten-year-old. He considers Angela's words, and then says, “Chuck, close your eyes.”

And breaks every finger in his right hand.

The crack of bone is loud, Dave’s scream louder before he loses it to unconsciousness, but Herc is already getting up and brushing himself off. Angela is holding Chuck back and looking like she could kill him with her bare hands—a familiar look, that—but Chuck’s eyes are shining.

The kid is looking at him in a way he hasn’t since the last time Herc came back from a deployment in full uniform full of war stories made age appropriate. Angela hadn’t liked that much either.

And just like back then, the important thing is the look on Chuck’s face and the way he stumbles over to hug him. Hasn’t done that since he left. Herc hugs him back slow, like he might scare him away.

“You gotta teach me to do that," Chuck says.

 

_2015_

It’s April, and Chuck hasn’t said a word in seven months.

That changes, like so many other things, with Brawler Yukon. The mech that changes the world for the second time two years brings _life_ back to his son’s eyes; Herc comes back to their makeshift home to find him watching the recordings over and over.

Herc has smiled more today than he has in all the days since September 2nd combined. Chuck’s matching grin is bloodthirsty, nearly feral. It should be worrisome. It’s the same look Herc sees in the mirror.

And he still dreams about Angela and the blinding flash that Sydney turned into as they flew away from it—and he knows Chuck does too, not because the kid tells him but because he sometimes wakes up and nearly trips over Chuck sleeping in the hallway outside Herc’s room—but there are other things to dream about now.

The first thing Chuck says, later that night with the news still showing pictures of Karloff’s carcass and Brawler’s pilots muted in the background, is: “Dave’s dead.”

It’s not what Herc would have expected, if he’d have expected anything. It takes a long moment for him to come up with a halfway suitable response, which he’ll swear is due to the surprise and not the fact that he’s gotten a little choked up at the sound of the kid’s voice. “Yeah? You checked?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says, and his voice is hoarse from lack of use, but strong with a kind of satisfaction Herc can recognize. It’s not a coincidence today is the day Chuck finally searched the casualty list for Dave’s name. It’s Brawler Yukon, and renewed hope that monsters really can die.

“Good,” Herc says, because he’s a shitty role model, a good soldier and a bad father, husband, ex-husband. A good soldier and a bad hero.

“Says the kaiju got him,” Chuck says, more hesitant this time but no less vindictive.

“Even better,” Herc says.

Chuck looks solemn. “But we’ll never really know that.”

“No,” Herc says, and they’re not talking about Dave anymore. He goes to ruffle Chuck’s short hair and ends up just resting his hand there on his head, and for once Chuck doesn’t pull away. Chuck closes his eyes, and Herc cups his son’s face and knows it was worth it either way. “No, we won’t.”

They never really talk about it again.

…

It’s August, and a year ago Chuck was thinking about going back to live with his mom.

He hadn’t said anything, because he wouldn’t, but Herc could tell, the way he hugged his mother longer and longer every time they said goodbye, the way he lingered in the living room at night before bedtime and opened his mouth like he was going to say something before he clenched his jaw and walked away.

It got to the point that Herc had almost just suggested it for him, but he’d realized how that’d sound just in time to stop himself doing any more damage to their fragile-is-an-understatement relationship. It wasn’t selfish, he promised himself, checking in with himself and then checking again, that it was really for Chuck that he wasn’t suggesting it.

Not because he didn’t want him to go, because the world had gone crazy and he wanted to keep his boy close. That wasn’t it.

After his birthday, Chuck had finally brought it up, and Herc asked, “You been thinking about this?”

Chuck nodded.

“Gonna take a wild guess and say you weren’t worried about my feelings,” Herc said.

“Was just waiting,” Chuck said, shifting uncomfortably in the kitchen doorway.

“What for?”

“I dunno. Till it’s safe.”

Herc sighed. “Ah, kid.”

“I thought—I thought maybe you’d come back too,” Chuck said, all in a rush.

It’d be impossible to come up with a right answer for that, Herc was sure, even for someone a million times better with words than he is. He’d taken as long as he could to think about it, focused on not burning dinner, before he had to say, “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

It’d been the best he could come up with, really, without making it out like it was Angela’s fault. Because he knows it’s his, that he’d have gone back in a heartbeat but it was his fault their marriage hadn’t worked in the first place—maybe things would have been different if he’d _made_ it work, maybe she wouldn’t have been in Sydney that day, maybe she would’ve been with Chuck, never mind that it was the middle of a school day—

Chuck had left the room. He hadn’t brought it up again, hadn’t had a choice two weeks later. He never got the chance to live with his mom again.

It’s been almost a year since Scissure. Herc watches his son sleep fitfully for a long time. And then looks down at the message in his hand from Stacker Pentecost. He never got the chance to feel safe again either.

Herc’s not sure which one the kid resents him for more, but he knows which one he might be able to do something about.

…

The day Herc graduates the academy—and isn’t that a strange feeling, thirty-five and a graduate, back in school at the end of the world—he’d swear his son looks proud of him.

Another strange feeling, that.

Later, he wonders if he mixed up pride for determination. Chuck tells him, “I’m gonna be a ranger too.”

He thinks of all the work he’s put in these past months, work that has mysteriously gone missing the moment he didn’t need it anymore, taken for thirteen-year-olds who thought they were sneaky to pour over in the middle of the night. “I know you are, kid.”

The smile that usually would have earned him, the one brighter than sunshine that died with his mother, is replaced with a satisfied nod.

Chuck, he thinks, will make a bad soldier and a damn fine hero.

He nods back.


End file.
